Bantha Steak Soup
by Carnivorous Pineapple
Summary: She didn't know what to do, so she made dinner. KOTOR oneshot, mild LSF RevanCarth.


She didn't know what to do, so she made dinner.

It struck her very quickly that it was ridiculous, considering the circumstances--the Leviathan and Malak's sickening revelation were only a few hours behind; she ought to be _meditating_ or _crying_ or _screaming_ or--or--

Well, suffice it to say that making dinner seemed like an absurd thing for someone who'd just found out they were Darth Revan to be doing. But there she was, doing it anyway.

"I'm not Revan," she said, and chopped vegetables furiously, slicing and dicing the somewhat lumpy Tatooine produce with a strange deftness, pausing after a moment to survey her handiwork.

"What in space am I doing?" she wondered aloud, planting her hands on her hips (careful not to stab herself with the knife) and frowning at the sand-colored array of vegetable cubes. "I've never cooked in my life. I have no idea how to make bantha-steak soup."

_Maybe Revan was a closet gourmet chef,_ she thought wryly, and tipped the cutting board's contents into the soup pot. "But I'm not Revan." Out came the bantha steaks from their slightly bloody paper package. "Chunks or shredded?" Maybe she ought to see if there was a recipe databook in the _Ebon Hawk_'s computer banks. But her datapad was on her bunk, and the last thing she wanted right now was to venture outside the _Hawk_'s tiny kitchen. That might mean a very awkward encounter with Carth. "Chunks it is."

The bantha steak was not exactly a prime cut of meat, but it was something real (not like those horrible rations they'd been subsisting on--the very thought of the dry, mealy nutrient bars made her shudder) and she fell into a rhythm of talking and cutting.

"I'm not Revan. (_Slice._) I don't remember anything but the occasional Star Map. (_Slice._) I feel no sudden urges to take over the galaxy. (_Slice._) Force, I even feel sorry for Malak-- (slice) Ow!"

The memory of the cold black sensation that hung around Malak took too much of her concentration away from the bantha steak, and the knife nicked a fingertip. She glared at the offended digit, squeezing under the cut with her thumb to alleviate some of the sting and succeeding only in making the blood ooze out faster. "Excellent. We can have bantha-and-Revan-steak soup."

Except she wasn't Revan.

She stared at the finger without really seeing it as she set the Force to work mending the cut. Revan had once lived in this body--she could accept that--but all that was left of the Dark Lord was a scattering of fragmented memories. A star map. Facing Bastila on the bridge of her flagship. Pacing before the ruins on Dantooine. They were like holovids in her mind--she saw, but she didn't feel. There was no Revan in her.

"Who am I?"

She swiped the bead of blood off her finger and onto her already worn and tattered robe (somehow she'd forgotten to change clothes after getting off the Leviathan). "Everything about me that's me was constructed by the Council." Back to the meat--slice. "How much of my personality was their idea?" Slice. "Who's my real family? Did I actually have two brothers?" Slice. "Did they take bits from other people's lives or just make it all up?" Slice. "You'd think they'd have wanted a perfect little emotionless clone of themselves." Dump the chopped meat into the pot. "So how come I still have the urge to do things Bastila nags me for?" Add some water, mutter-- "And feel resentful about her doing it?" Turn the heat on under the pot. "And that stuff about not loving?...forget it."

She sat on the floor (no room for a chair) and plunked her head back against the wall. The jumble of thoughts running through her head was threatening to overwhelm her; it startled a halfhearted smile from her to realize that the thought of the Jedi Council shaping her mind frightened her more than the fact that she was--had been--Revan.

The minutes ticked by as she tried to organize her thoughts and puzzle through the mystery of who she was. By the time the smell of cooked bantha meat began wafting from the pot, she was no closer to a conclusion. But this she knew:

Revan was dead.

She unfolded her cramped legs and got to her feet. Her cooking endeavor hadn't produced as much stew as she'd thought it would, but at least it smelled good. A cautious tasting told her it was indeed better fare than ration bars--though still no gourmet feast.

She spooned some of the thick broth into two bowls and fished in the pot for a few more chunks of meat and vegetables. Carth might not be ready to talk yet. But at least she could take her handsome thug some dinner.

After all...

Her first genuine smile since the Leviathan surfaced at the memory.

It wasn't for nothing that he'd called her the most persistent woman he'd ever met.

**Fin**


End file.
